Is it possible—Bolaño implieswriting a fiction—so true it dies intopoetry—a prose that loses itsidentity or goes—undergroundto perform another—secret service?

“Bolaño’s stories assert thatliterature, as a martyr’s vocation,has more to do with ignominy thanwith accolades. Forced into exile,Bolaño found a way to lovedisplacement, to find philosophicalcomfort in dwelling’s vertigo.”—Wayne Koestenbaum

Does literary exile ever end?Is writing—a martyr’s vocation?To be a joiner or sycophant—sittingComplacently within a an influentialLiterary movement to be scorned?When does writerly refusal end—And collaboration begin? BorgesIn his old age—erasing Peron forAnother dictator. This time boughtOff with luxurious coffee tableBooks and Nazi accolades?

“Bolaño’s greatness lies inthe distance between thehorror of the alluded-toevent and the imperturbablelucidity of his narrative tone,as if every newsreel orflashback of catastrophecould be intellectualizedinto fable or turned intochill synopsis”—Wayne Koestenbaum

The Boom Lit Bubble—Popped over the scummyWhirlwind engulfing Chile,Argentina and CentralAmerica. Who could speakOr write of Death quicklyEnough—without fleeingThe bloody occurrencesGlimpsed thru the eyesOf that young generation.Mexico City, Allende,Kent State, Chicago…The Americas openedUp like a cave biggerThan earth—so big thatThere was no differenceBetween screaming andNot screaming anymore…

“I am addicted to the hazethat floats about Bolaño’sfiction—a trance, a sensethat every divination occursunderwater, in halflight”—Wayne Koestenbaum

Some things don’t disappear—Like torture in Chile, Argentina,Abu Ghraib prison in Baghdad,Guantánamo. We think that ourCapacity to suffer is immense—But we’re not the ones beingWater-boarded, electrocuted,Tortured with stilettos, druggedAnd thrown from helicoptersTo sharks below. You’re readingThis in you home—but downThere in your basement there’sA torture salon going on. BodiesAre being beaten—while youWatch FOX-News fake it. WereWe too young, remote, naïve—Were we too trusting, complacent,Fearing what was going on—weListened but was it close enough?Now that we know—so what?

Power and decadence—at onceBaroque and attenuated. DoesIt give us a model—for Literature?When we disappear—do we fleeFrom our voice? Only to returnTo it later—with the blanknessOf pure attentiveness? Is itPossible to write Fiction—as ifWe’re dying into Poetry? As wePhase out of prose—do we haveTime to do the Detective work?To lose our identity—and goUnderground inside ourselves?To do what poets—have alwaysDone? Lowering one’s voice—Before raising it once again?